


Think Like A Gun

by handful_ofdust



Category: 3:10 to Yuma (2007)
Genre: Ben Wade is a Lying Liar, Drunkenness, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:07:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2360639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handful_ofdust/pseuds/handful_ofdust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charlie Prince's crush on Ben Wade is obvious, and Ben's just annoyed enough to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Think Like A Gun

_When you’ve begun to think like a gun The rest of your days are already gone. —John Cale._

  
The very first time Ben Wade met Charlie Prince, the man’d already had a rope around his neck; probably should’ve told Ben something, he often thought, afterwards.

  
And maybe it had, in context. But maybe, also—it being most convenient for his needs, at the time, that he do so—he’d simply chosen not to notice.

  
Yet that’d been an entirely other day, at the bitter end of the War Between States. What might yet turn out to be the worst strategic decision of Ben’s life, on the other hand, began several years later, with a coach full of bank script and railroad gold, departing from Contention at a secret time Ben’d easily managed to charm from one of the railway scouts’ neglected wives.

  
The snatch itself had gone like clockwork—‘cept for the Pinkertons lying in wait, that is. After ten more miles of hot pursuit, Ben reckoned something needed to be done, so he nodded at Charlie; they reined up under the lip of a hill while Charlie rounded up the few stragglers, neat as any sheepdog. Ben half-turned in his saddle, to better address the whole gang.

  
"Gents," he said, "I think we’ll part company here. Y’all go where your appetites take you. Charlie, you’re with me."

  
"Boss."

  
Ben caught Tommy Darden frowning at this, and cocked an eyebrow; at the very edge of his vision, he saw Charlie trace the glance back, scowling like he’d just noticed someone trying to make off with his treasured pot of pistol-polish.

  
"Something about this plan strike you as particularly disturbin’, Tommy?"

  
"Well, sorta. Like how’re we s’posed to know where to meet up, after?"

  
Ben thought a moment on what to answer, but opened his mouth too late; Charlie had already cut between them, snapping—

  
"You’ll know when Mister Wade takes a mind to tell you, farm-boy; ‘til then, just keep your head down and your big damn mouth shut." Then, as though realizing he might’ve spoke out of turn, he wheeled back, deferring to Ben once more: "Ain’t that right, boss?"

  
No real time for suitable chastisement, not with Agency men gaining fast on them. So: "It is," Ben agreed, and tipped his hat. "Boys, I’ll see you when I see you. Now you best ride hard and hide even better, if you don’t want to be sportin’ hempen neck-ties—or John Law’s store-boughts connectin’ with your asses, either."

  
That put paid to ‘em, scattering men and horses alike to the compass-points, with noise and dust rising every which-a-way—exactly the sort of cover Ben’d hoped for, when he’d said it. He whistled to rouse his own mount, grabbed Charlie’s reins so he could shoot two-handed without worrying over navigation, and made for an open gap. Soon they were through and mainly out of danger, even with Charlie’s uncannily nimble lead managing to pick off three more of old Byron McElroy‘s hirelings as they went.

  
Then it was nothing but one long, hard gallop through the scrub, stones underfoot and slipping all the way, ‘til the horizon finally came up clear on a last check behind. Ben saw the lights of Mahoney’s cathouse flickering ahead, and pulled up to find Charlie at his elbow, as ever—though presently squinting the other way with a look Ben might’ve almost called contemplative, had he not known him quite so long (or well).

  
"They sure did keep a-comin’," Charlie said, a faint hint of surprise in his flat voice—as though he’d genuinely never remarked on the fact before.

  
Ben nodded, grimly. Pointing out: "They’d’ve probably stopped some miles back, you hadn’t’a kept on killin’ so damn many of ‘em."

  
"Uh huh. Well, I do hate Pinks."

  
"Why, Charlie Prince, is that so? You take me aback." Ben kicked his horse into a canter, calling: "Next you’ll be tellin’ me how you hate posses, or the Union. Or Ulysses S. Goddamn Grant!"

  
From behind him, quiet, in the fading twilight, as Charlie spurred his own mount to a similar pace: "Whatever you say, boss."

  
***

  
The day Ben’d saved Charlie from hanging, he certainly hadn’t done it out of the nonexistent goodness of his heart. He’d come to town that morning looking to raise himself a gang, which—especially with no start-up funds on offer—soon proven a harder proposition than he’d initially thought it might. Instead he’d found Charlie, who needed help, and Ben had given it to him betting that Charlie would be the kind who paid his debts in full. As it turned out, that bet’d been a fairly sound one.

  
Ben believed the original point of dispute between Charlie, the remaining members of his platoon and the citizens of Wherever, Kansas had had something to do with payment by Confederate script, instead of "good" (and near-worthless) Yankee greenbacks. But by the time it spilled over into the bar, Ben had been perfectly content amuse himself watching the luckless greycoats fall like dominoes—all but one, who managed to put a former blue-belly down along with every one of them, apparently without blinking.

  
After which he bit the first drunk who grabbed his arm on the cheek, stole his gun as he kicked him in the balls, and stood firing two-handed into the crowd, cursing a mean blue streak, ‘til somebody—Ben never saw who—threw a chair that collided with the back of his head, knocking him cold.

  
Ben saw no earthly reason why someone that potentially useful had to die just for avenging his friends, stupid as they might have been. So once the townsfolk got the boy he would later find out was named Charlie Prince loaded onto his horse and slung a knot ‘round his neck, Ben followed close behind—laughed a bit to himself when Charlie told the preacher he’d rather spit on a Bible than hear one read from, and noted how they’d obviously been too scared of him (even unconscious) to tie his hands safely behind his back, like any normal posse would.

  
"Hope they’re keepin’ the fires hot for you down in Hell, you damn murderin’ secesh!" Mayor Dumb-ass of Shithole City yelled, slapping Charlie’s horse on its butt—and Ben took his shot, not a second too soon. Unfazed by his mysterious good luck, Charlie dug his spurs and knees in tight, both pinned hands using the horse’s mane for reins; he was long out of sight before any of those yokels had time to wonder why their necktie party was suddenly missing its guest of honor.

  
Ben caught up with him some miles later, thrown off in the brush, trying to cut himself free against a not-too-sharp rock. One look at Ben’s gun got him still and quiet, poised proud as some banty-size rooster in the face yet another prospective execution—but when Ben threw him his knife instead, his dirty face cracked wide with a toothy predator smile.

  
"That’s some nice side-iron ya got there, mister," he said, shearing the rope with a single, economical tug, completely uncaring what damage the reversed blade might do to his cuffs (or wrists). "Have those crosses put on the hilt yourself, or did ya find it done up that way already?"

  
Ben eased back on the safety, matching the smile with one of his own—far more convincing, he reckoned, unless he was losing his touch. "This here’s the Hand of God, son," he replied. "Maybe you’ve heard of it."

  
Charlie nodded. "Then you must be Ben Wade,"he said. And Ben, against his will, felt the familiar glow of infamy recognized warm his cold, black soul a bit towards even this scrawny, wall-eyed representative of the ultimate losing side.

  
That night, ‘round the campfire, Ben’d studied young Mister Prince at close range while he tore through most of Ben’s saddlebag pantry: Full height but rail-thin, like he hadn’t quite got his real growth yet, his cheeks still suspiciously clean under all that grime. "Just how old are you, anyhow, kid?" He asked.

  
"I ain’t no kid."

  
"Going strictly by combat experience, probably not. But humor me: How old?"

  
Charlie paused to wipe his mouth on the back of his sleeve, glacing down briefly, as though suddenly struck shy. "Twenty-five," he said, eventually.

  
"Not hardly, you ain’t." Ben waited. Wheedlingly: "Aw, c’mon, Charlie…must’ve killed ten men today, at the very least, back where your friends fell. Don’t tell me you’re too embarassed to say your proper age right out loud, where anyone could hear."

  
Another, longer pause. Then, practically into his collar—

  
"…seventeen."

  
Which was how Ben knew Charlie must in fact be younger, though he hated to think by just how much.

  
At any rate:

  
"War’s been over quite a piece now, Mister Prince. You had your fill of soldiering yet?"

  
"Maybe. Got somethin’ better in mind?"

  
"Maybe." Ben leaned closer. "How much you know about an enterprising outfit called the Southern Pacific Railway?"

  
***

  
Now, five years gone, Charlie was all filled out at last—muscled broad at the shoulder, narrow at the waist, a lush gold growth of moustache and beard around his bitter little mouth. When they hit places like this, the whores clustered ‘round to compete for his diffident attention, which Ben could understand; he didn’t drink overmuch, after all, and his vanity alone kept him far cleaner than most.

  
Yes, vain as a bored girl on Sunday morning, was deadly Charlie Prince—still quick to pick a fight and just as quick to end it, usually with a bullet. Though not pretty, as such, even with the side-whispered "Charlie Princess" nickname to contend with; his was a peculiarly masculine appeal, shiny like a well-kept weapon. A gun much like either of his own, perhaps, with notches on the stock and grease in its immaculate barrel—no crosses, just the decoration inherent in having killed one Hell of a lot of people.

  
 _Haughty eyes and a proud heart—the lamp of the wicked—are sin,_ Ben thought, watching Charlie catch sight of himself in the mirror over Mahoney’s bar, preening in a way that made him want to kick him hard. Adding, automatically: _Proverbs, 21-4._

  
Once safely inside, a sufficient outlay of coin soon bought them a night in one of the "special" rooms—private, upstairs, lockable from the inside. Charlie almost immediately took to stripping and cleaning his guns, his usual evening occupation, while Ben managed to add a few bottles of fine whiskey to the tab without incurring further expenditure, at the mere cost of twenty minutes’ sustained flirtation with a gal who said her name was Lilibet.

  
"I’m on the floor ‘til ‘round midnight," she told him. "Maybe after, though, if you wanted…"

  
"Darlin’, I await the hour with baited breath."

  
Charlie made some sort of noise at that—maybe a cough, or a snort. But his odd, pale eyes never left the metal beneath his hands, deftly spinning first one reloaded barrel, then the other, before flourishing both back into their respective holsters. He stretched his red-clad legs, jacket creaking, and took another moment to admire himself in the bedside mirror; the sight made Ben’s tamped-down temper suddenly flare with unexpected force, leading him to polish his just-poured glass off in one gulp. After which he poured two more with elaborate care, nudging the second Charlie-wards, and said—

  
"Sit down, Charlie. Night’s young—you can shed your kit awhile, and take a drink with me while you’re at it. Given how hot under the skirt that young lady who just left seems to be over a touch and a few kind words, I think it’s highly unlikely Byron could get himself in here without us knowin’."

  
Hesitant: "I, uh… don’t really drink, boss. You know that."

  
"Oh?" Ben shrugged. "Well, you do tonight. It’s main cold in here now the sun’s gone down, this close to the roof, and I ain’t drinkin’ alone."

  
Charlie took a sizable breath. Ben could see he didn’t much like the prospect, but knew he wouldn’t rail against it, either. Fact was, there was something in Charlie Prince, even now—perhaps bred into him, or even born—which wanted orders to follow, authority to reverence. More than a touch of the Spartan to his personality, far from Greece though he’d been spawned…in every possible sense of that ancient, woman-decrying warrior epithet, possibly.

  
And: "Okay, then," Charlie said, at last, his all-too-brief moment of resistance apparently gone by the wayside. "I’ll bite. Pass that bottle over, and let’s us get rowdy."

  
Which, coming right in the wake of his prescient insights into the man’s motivations—Ben would think the next day, with slight yet genuine regret—was probably the exact instant when the idea of how best to deal with Charlie’s earlier insubordination first came clear to him.

  
***

  
As it proved, for a man who "didn’t really drink", Charlie sure could put it away—and his idea of "rowdy" was, as ever, fittingly eccentric. By the time Lilibet turned up once more, good as her word, Ben was glad to see her for more reasons than the obvious; he’d spent the previous fifteen minutes trying to convince his well-lubricated second-in-command that—money up front or not—Mahoney really might shit-can both their asses (plus call the Pinkertons, to boot) if Charlie followed his most immediate impulse, and started shooting out the room’s sconces one by one, just for fun.

  
"Lit like you are, I reckon you might as well sit this one out," Ben told him, slipping him another full glass of hooch with one hand, while pulling the buckle on Charlie’s gun-belt free with the other. Shot already half-drunk by the time Ben pushed him away again, Charlie went stumbling backwards into a convenient chair, precariously-placed hat pushed far enough down over his eyes that he never saw Ben kick both his favorite playthings safely under the bed—before beckoning Lilibet over to that same comfortable piece of furniture, flashing her a custom-crafted devilish smile.

  
"Pretty girl," he called her, flipping her skirts up around her waist, as her well-taught fingers fumbled with his fly-buttons. "Wouldn’t happen to know how to sing anything even half as pretty, would you?"

  
Lilibet blushed, and shook her head. "Nossir, I sure wouldn’t."

  
From the chair, slightly muffled: "I can sing."

  
"Really, Charlie? That’s news to me." Ben had Lilibet already pinned by fast the knee, bent deep to rummage between her thighs enough so’s she’d be wet enough for easy entry, but he still took a second to cock his head in Charlie’s direction. "Better lift your hat out of your eyes, if so, and give us a demonstration."

  
The true oddity of it was, though—turned out, Charlie Prince _could_ sing, after a fashion: Mournfully, repetitively, with a weird clog-step trick of rhythm Ben almost thought he might’ve recognized from some of those tiny holler churches they’d passed by together, hot-footing their mutual way the Hell out of Kansas. It sounded a bit like a hymn, or what’d started out as one, but Charlie was treating it like a battle-cry gone wrong—the original Rebel yell re-done in time with a cheap bordello headboard’s back-and-forth, blasphemously interrupted (here and there) by Ben’s grunts of effort, or Lilibet’s breathy moans.

  
"Iiiiii— _know_ that _I_ am _born_ to _die_ , from _sin_ and _toil_ this _soul_ shall _fly_ , ‘cause I _don’t_ care to _stay_ here _long_ …Iiiii’ll— _spread_ my _wings_ and lift a _way_ , to _sing_ his _prai_ ses _ev_ ’ry day, ‘cause I _don’t_ care to _stay_ here _long_ …"

  
 _Rise up, Christians,_ Ben thought to himself, amazed—and amused—by the racket. Wasn’t any real sort of Bible-learning by any stretch of the imagination, but who’d’ve thought Charlie had even that small amount of Godly, uh—ugh— _sentiment_ in him—

  
And: "Oh, Mister Wade!" Lilibet exclaimed, cutting Charlie’s inappropriate boudoir serenade off at last; they fell apart, stickily, each in a different direction. Ben caught Charlie’s gaze as he did so—hat finally discarded, pupils near-unfocussed, yet strangely reproachful—and found himself forced to bite his tongue in order to keep from laughing right out loud, in the younger man’s solemn, intoxicated face.

  
Because that would never do, even with the both of ‘em in this sort of intimate disarray; Charlie couldn’t abide true mockery, especially not the overt kind. Besides which, the object of the exercise—the lesson—Ben hoped to impart tonight was to bind Charlie closer to him, not force him further away.

  
Later, Lilibet long dispatched to her own sleeping-place, they both somehow ended up on the bed, stretched side by side—boots off, coats shucked, shirt-collars unbuttoned, the last of that second bottle shared back and forth between ‘em. Charlie lying all lolled out with his eyes half-shut, sharp cheekbones bright pink at their highest points, while Ben studied him under his lashes, thinking—

  
So innocent, if only in his own (highly off-putting) way. He had a repertoire of social expressions he could imitate fairly well, the same way he’d parody their own victims to the Law if he thought he could get away with it—but there was always something missing from the charade. Some otherwise simple set of connections he’d never quite been able to make as yet, and possibly never would.

  
At rest, removed from the exercise of his primary skill, Charlie couldn’t help but take on a slightly sad aspect—he was an animal trained and made for only one purpose, for all he might make occasional half-hearted stabs at some others. Pitiable solely at one’s own risk, in that he’d rather die (or kill) than let himself be pitied.

  
Luckily for them both, Ben Wade had almost no pity in him, by nature and inclination alike. Which probably made it good they’d found each other.   
"You just need to stop killing Pinkertons, is all," Ben said, apropos of nothing much. "I don’t know how else to put it. You lay out every damn Pink you see, you cost us time and opportunity…and more to the point, you cost me money."

  
"But—I _hate_ ‘em, boss."

  
"Granted and proven, and I don’t care; they come with a gang attached too, but theirs is bigger’n ours. Nod if you understand me."

  
"Ours?"

  
"By which I of course meant mine."

  
"’Course."

  
"Good call, Charlie." Ben took another swig, then offered it back. "And you need to lay off of Tommy Darden, too—for the next little while, at least."

  
" _That_ limp-dick?" Charlie snorted, bottle half-hugged to him in a slack embrace, sloshing. "Tommy’s a liability."

  
"Not unless I say so, he ain’t."

  
"Look, it’s just…he says what they all think, and whenever you let him get away with it, they take it like Holy Writ they was right. Don’t want that kinda trouble brewin’ where you can’t see it comin’, boss."

  
Quite a long speech for Charlie, and not inaccurate, either. Too bad it carried the same stink of earlier on, with Charlie jumping to conclusions on Ben’s behalf; he couldn’t have Charlie questioning him, particularly in public, any more than he could brook his own fingers refusing to draw the Hand of God.

  
Straight out with the only possible reply, therefore, quick and cold and hard as a verbal punch—

  
" _You_ want to be the one leadin’ this gang, Charlie? That the implication I’m supposed to be takin’ away, here?"

  
Charlie stopped short, bottlle rolling from his grip; almost gaped, apparently at the sheer impossibility of the idea. He’d obviously never thought of it that way before—a definite mark in his favor.

  
" _No_ ," he said, finally."Not hardly."

  
"Then I’m still boss."

  
"’Course y’are. Boss."

  
And here it was, at last. The actual point of contention come ‘round at last, made visible flesh for Ben to grab and squeeze—hard.

  
"So I guess you’ll just have to resign yourself to lettin’ me _let_ him get away with it, from now on," Ben snarled, leaning in on him, so’s they were all but nose to nose. "Guess you’ll just have to do whatsoever I damn say and _like_ it, won’t you, Charlie Prince?"

  
There was a breathless second’s pause. Ben saw the kill-flare come and go in Charlie’s odd eyes, like a green flash on the horizon at sunset—come fast, go even faster. He was a wild dog with only a few tricks to his name, after all. But even sozzled, even riled well beyond what he’d never bear from anyone else, Charlie knew exactly who his master was.

  
Now he was shaking his head, slow, like the drink was making him see double. Saying, with many a pause and a skip—

  
"Look, all’s I meant…I’m just tryin’ to do right by you. Back you up, ‘cause that’s my job. ‘Cause you’re the boss."

  
"That’s right. I am."

  
Even slower, increasingly sloppier: "You’re the gen’ral, I’m not—I get that. Don’t think I don’t. So…you jus’ go ‘head and do whatever you…want. To do."

  
Ben smiled at him then, the same brand of smile he’d offered Lilibet, and every ten-cent whore before her—frank and open, sunny as a false winter thaw. The one worked with every barmaid from here to Yuma, even those who surely must have known—down deep at heart—it meant nothing more, in the end, than a brisk (if pleasurable) roll in the hay proceeded by some false (yet still pretty) compliments.

  
"Think I will," Ben agreed. Then hove in and kissed him, hard enough to bruise, before poor, drunk Charlie could even think to object.

  
***

  
Things went a good deal faster, after that.

  
Kissing Charlie left a taste of salt and dust behind on Ben’s lips, chased with a sucked-in breath, so hot it burned like lit whiskey. He felt good in his arms, right-fitting, like he’d been made for it—and even better the next moment, pinned flat and fast under Ben’s weight with his muscles coiled like springs, trapped legs nevertheless already starting to crack their way open…

  
Ben broke it off a second, drawing a flatteringly husky groan for his efforts. Asking: "Just how long is it you been waitin’ for me to do that, Charlie?"

  
Charlie gulped, and shook his head again. "Uh…um. What?"

  
"I mean, if what you really wanted was for me to fuck you, you sure didn’t have to work it so damn hard—you’re a good-lookin’ man, in your own way. All you ever had to do was ask."

  
_‘Cause…that IS what you wanted, right? Or do you even know WHAT you want, your own self?_

  
Not a Bible reader, Charlie, as Ben had already observed…and thinking further on it, he found he remained laughably unsure whether or not Charlie even could read, let alone how well. Which meant he might never have the dubious comfort of finding his true feelings for "Boss" Ben Wade echoed in the book of _Ruth (1-16, 1-17)_ :

  
_Press me not to leave you Nor turn me back from following you! For whither thou goest, there also will I go… Where you die, I shall die— There also will I be buried. May the LORD do thus and so to me, If even death parts me from you!_

  
Whatever tiny portion of his own motivations Charlie Prince might understand, however, was truly a mystery for the ages. And since Ben had neither the time nor the inclination to explain it to him, right at this minute, he simply kissed him instead, this time far more thoroughly—‘til both of them were gasping for air, and Charlie knocked his own head back hard against the bedstead to make Ben disengage, like he was looking to clear it enough to at least get a word in edgewise. Managing, finally—

  
"You really mean that? Or…are you, just…"

  
_…fuckin’ with me?_

_  
Oh, I do mean to,_ Ben thought, stopping Charlie’s words with his mouth. And came in close yet once more, for the kill.

  
But: A roll, a flop, and all of a sudden it was Charlie on top, tongue excavating Ben’s mouth with surprising determination. Squirming his way up Ben’s leg ‘til the one pistol left in his tight red pants connected with Ben’s hip, then grinding hard against him, fisting both their hands together as he did. Ben wrestled with him a while before getting his thumbs into Charlie’s waistband, and hauling downwards.

  
"Get ‘em the hell off, damnit—and do it fast."

  
Charlie nodded, breathless. Hopeful: "You too?"

  
Through grit teeth: "I usually find that’s the best procedure to follow in such occasions, Charlie, yes."

  
A struggle for mutual nakedness ensued, one which would probably seem fairly hilarious to the casual observer. Ben, who’d always idly wondered if that fine new(ish) fur of Charlie’s went all the way down, soon found it did—all the way to that dull gold nest where his cock slapped up against his stomach, bright red and juicy.

  
Ben took the leaking head of it in hand, and watched Charlie hiss out loud at his merest touch, clearly already riding the ragged edge of arousal. So Ben bought them both more time to do things leisurely— _properly_ —with a few brisk strokes; Charlie folded up against him, falling hard like he’d been shot, and came like an oil-strike gushing.

  
The natural lull for recovery immediately afterwards gave Ben enough leverage to put things back the way they should be: Him above, Charlie below, spread out and waiting. Ben used the result of his labors to slick himself up, while Charlie looked on, dubiously.

  
Suspicious: "What’cha think you’re gonna do with that?"

  
"You like what I’ve done with you thus far, Charlie?"

  
"…yeah."

  
"Odds are, you’ll get to like this too, then…eventually."

  
And why not? Charlie’d always been good with pain, in Ben’s experience. For a man used to sometimes riding with bullets still lodged in him, a mild bit of stretch in the nether regions ought to feel like a—slightly uncomfortable—stroll through the metaphorical park.

  
So: _Let’s get to it,_ he thought, as he hauled Charlie’s legs up. And pushed his way inside.

  
Charlie made a choked noise, biting down—right into Ben’s shoulder, yet Ben found he didn’t much mind. They fell into a haze, straining and scrabbling, and for some minutes more…a shockingly long period of time… _Ben Wade_ , the man himself, discovered he momentarily wasn’t actually capable of forming any thoughts at all.

  
Eventually, however, this phase of it passed. Ben stared down at Charlie’s sweating face, feeling his faculties reorganize themselves almong considerably more familiar lines. And musing, as they did—

  
Much as he loved women, Ben’d often found it to his advantage to be amenable the other way, a time or two—outside Yuma, as well as inside. Why not, especially if it cost him nothing? Besides, it wasn’t as though there were no advantages at all to such transactions; Ben prided himself on being able to find at least some amusement in almost any situation.

  
But Charlie…Charlie wasn’t just making do here, or going along to get along. Charlie was having himself far too good a time for that. Especially so whenever Ben dug in deep enough to find that particular spot—yes, that one!—and made those odd eyes of his all but cross on every back-stroke.   
The more than half-crazed way he was staring up at him, though—strung taut, transfixed, panting hard—had Ben feeling far less like surrogate father, boss or fuck-buddy comrade than like whatever angel struck old Saul down on the Damascus road: _Was blind, but now I see._

  
And: "More," Charlie demanded, both hands on Ben’s hips, squeezing him tight as some Methodist farm-girl’s cooch. "Do that again, that _thing_. Like that, yeah. Just—like— _that_ —"

  
Ben cleared his dry throat, taking refuge in rhetoric. "Findin’ my ideas on how to spend an evening interesting, are you, Charlie?"

  
"Oh, yes. Oh God, _damn_ , yes!"

  
Ben had known for a long time now that Charlie—having never done anything to merit the feeling, at least by his own peculiar standards—really did have no shame. And apparently, this didn’t break that pattern; far from being mollified, every good turn he did Charlie just served to get Ben yanked in closer, his slamming hips matched stroke for stroke, that flat voice snarling in his ear like a wolf to _not stop_ , not _ever_ , just _keep fuckin’ going_ —

  
Getting loud with it, too; way too damn loud for comfort, or for safety. Ben laid his palm across Charlie’s open lips, only to snatch it back an instant later, cursing: Do _not_ tell me you just tried to bite me _again_ , Charlie Prince!

  
Well, all right. Flies with sugar, etc. He pressed his mouth to Charlie’s sweaty ear, murmuring—

  
"Keep it down, Charlie, nice and soft, all right? Quiet. For _the mouths of fools are their ruin, and their lips a snare unto themselves…_ "

  
But Charlie didn’t seem to hear him—didn’t want to, maybe—which meant all the Scripture in the world ( _Proverbs 18-7_ , in this instance) wasn’t likely to help the situation any. Realizing this, Ben changed tone sharply, and snapped:

  
"Hey! I _said_ , shut your mouth before the house gorillas come knockin’, or we’re stoppin’ this particular train here and now!"

  
With that threat, Charlie’s eyes finally came open once more—he squinted up at Ben, oculars gone all bright green, hard and fierce. Same look near a hundred other men must’ve met, Ben reckoned, just before Charlie blew their stupid brains out.

  
"Oh _no_ , we damn well ain’t," Charlie told Ben, firmly, without even a hint of a "boss" to ameliorate the command. And yanked him right back down.

 

***

  
More time went by. And then, then—  
  
—then it was next morning, with sweet little Lilibet knocking at the door; she came in, a spring to her step, smiling fondly on them both like the fool she was. She nodded over at Charlie, sprawled in his sheets, to Ben, who’d been up for an hour already—neat, clean, dressed and in place by the window, checking his watch by the dawn’s early light.

  
"Looks like your friend needed it bad," Lilibet remarked, no doubt meaning a full night’s drunk, or maybe just a good, long…sleep.

  
"Looks like."

  
"I could bring you both breakfast…"

  
"No, darlin’, better not. Maybe next time?"

  
More blushes. "I surely will, Mister Wade."

  
And off she went, happy as a well-fucked lark.

  
Ben looked back at Charlie, deep asleep with his teeth showing slightly, more a snarl than a snore. He hadn’t seen him this oblivious since that San Francisco opium den, when somebody passed him a pipe and he took a few puffs not knowing what was in it; the result left him dopey and sore for days afterwards, so Ben expected last night’s little impromptu bacchanal might well have left him with a head like a ticking watermelon…even without the additional strain of losing his back-door cherry factored in on top of it, to boot.

  
God knew, Ben was feeling pretty sore himself right now, for what that was worth: Not exactly looking forward to the day’s ride, what with his dick all skinned back, privates and face whisker-burnt raw, tongue so vigorously pulled on it felt near loose at the roots. Must’ve taken a good deal of strength to hold old Charlie down and do his duty, since Ben could still feel the strain of it in every creaking joint—like _he_ ’d been the one used, and not the other way ‘round. Used hard, put away wet…

  
It wasn’t a sensation he enjoyed enough to savour, let alone considered worth repeating anytime too soon.

  
But it hadn’t all been hard work, certainly. He had a dim recollection of waking before five o’clock with Charlie’s head stuffed between his legs, mouth working furiously, tongue barely masking his teeth as he forced Ben ever-deeper into his own throat—so badly misalligned as to come close to choking himself, yet far too frantic to stop. Or to care.

  
Ben never having claimed to be a saint, though, he knew damn well the only thing he’d probably done in response was to grab Charlie by the ears, shift him to a better position, and hang on for the rest of the ride.

  
So here they both were, in the clear light of day. And here was Charlie, shaking himself awake with his usual speed, hand already grasping for his gun-belt. Then opening those pale eyes wide to catch Ben looking, and—

  
(oh my good Lord)

  
—honest -to-badness _grinning_ up at him, goony as some school-girl. Unnatural as a cow herding dogs.

  
"What now?" Charlie asked, stretching luxuriously. To which Ben answered, with perhaps an unnecessary hint of waspishness—

  
" _Now_ , we ride. Got miles to go ‘fore those Pinkertons you riled up’ll finally break chase, remember?"

  
Charlie’s face fell, resuming its normal stony lines. He said, softer: "I just meant…"

  
"I know what you meant."

  
We both do. Don’t we?

  
_Though…me more’n you, I’m almost sure. Given your record thus far._

  
And this, much as he was loath to admit it, was proof of just how badly he’d miscalculated. In the back of his mind, Ben could still well recall that blinding instant when he’d first realized how much better a real, live woman—one particular much older, real, live woman—could be than his own right hand. That was what he’d just done for Charlie, he now saw: Given him the gift of self-knowledge, the keys to a whole other kingdom. One which, even were Ben to pull out now and cut him loose forever, would probably be forever inhabited by potential lovers who’d disappoint for the simple crime of not being Ben Wade.

  
Oh, he’d broken Charlie Prince in at last, far better than he’d looked to. And you never forget your first, do you?

  
(Green eyes, and all.)

  
"You don’t think too much of me," Charlie said, after a time, with no particular emphasis. "Do you."

  
Such a note in his flat voice, one Ben’d never really heard before—more a tone than a note, but spreading, like a crack. Ben cast him a look that was as close to sympathy as he ever got, and thought:

  
_Why, Charlie—long’s we’ve ridden together, are you really telling me you didn’t already know? Truth is, I’m nothin’ but a selfish bastard with a flair for outlaw style, not to mention a damn good memory for Thumper-talk. All of which just goes to show how I don’t really think of YOU at all…_

  
Not you, not often. And not too often on anybody else, either.

  
Yet—

  
Ben slid back into charm mode, slippery as ever, tempering his earlier salt with a soothing dose of sugar. Saying: "Look, Charlie—we can’t do this often, you know that. Word’d get ‘round. Now up you get…and for God’s sake, put your damn pants back on before somebody smarter than _her_ sees you lyin’ around without ‘em."

  
The words came easy, plausibly, like the always did; a bright smile and a lie entwined, the very best sort of rate of exchange to offer, when what you wanted was something for nothing. Or so Ben’d always found.

  
"I need you back on point now, not ornery, not jealous…jealous of what, Tommy Goddamn Darden? Tommy’s an imbecile, Charlie. You’re worth twenty of him to me. I can get a Tommy in any flyspeck town we hit, two if I want ‘em. But where in the Hell would I _ever_ find me another you?"

  
It worked, or seemed to: Charlie did nothing to indicate he _hadn’t_ accepted this particular load of dross for gold, which—given the circumstances—would simply have to do. Yet Ben knew that things would never be exactly the same between them, not from now on. They couldn’t be. The clock was ticking, ratcheting up to that moment when Ben’s occasional internal whisper of _I just may have to kill Charlie, one of these days_ would, inevitably, become a cold statement of fact: _Now I’m gonna HAVE to kill Charlie, and right damn soon, too. Before he finally takes a mind to kill ME._

  
Ben didn’t think it likely, considering what he’d seen in Charlie’s worshipful face the night before. Sad, but true: A bell that strong, once rung at last, could never be quite unstruck. And that, Ben thought, was…just too damn bad…

  
(For Charlie.)

  
_I’ve saved your life. You’ve saved mine. I’d trust you to keep on saving it, ‘til I was dead, or you were. But come the time we’re both looking down each other’s gun-barrels, Charlie, I know this much: You’ll remember tonight. You’ll hesitate. And I—_

_  
—won’t._

  
***

  
As they rode westward, Ben Wade tipped his hat-brim down against the growing wind, which blew cold, straight from the desert’s own heart. Up ahead, he spotted a turkey vulture in mid-flight; one hand reached inside his lapel, feeling for sketch-tablet and charcoal. _That might make a fine study,_ he thought, _when and if I can catch one a little closer up._

  
Charlie kept to his elbow, as ever—his good right hand riding slightly to his left, slightly behind, with perfect deference. Ben could feel his odd eyes on his back, however, fair burning through the weave of his coat: Heavy like a touch, hot with things unspoken.

  
Well, he could just take care to keep ‘em that way—and would, if he knew what was good for him. The newfound immediacy of Charlie’s love pained Ben slightly, reminding him how he still hadn’t yet met the woman—or man—whose needs he’d ever put before himself…and didn’t expect to anytime soon, either.

  
_For among my people are found wicked men: they lay in wait, as he that setteth snares; they set a trap, they catch men. As a cage full of birds, so are their houses full of deceit: therefore they are become great, and waxen rich._

_  
Jeremiah, 26-7._

  
They crested the next hill, together, turning for the various pits of sin where his gang’s dregs had no doubt collected. After that, it’d be Bisbee; Ben had heard there was yet another Pacific stage en route there, heavy-laden and –guarded. A good take. Maybe more fun with Byron, and his boys.

  
All in all, it looked to be shaping up a beautiful day.

  
THE END


End file.
